


Feet Back On the Ground - Help 'Verse Missing Scenes

by blueskypenguin



Series: Help 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskypenguin/pseuds/blueskypenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven missing scenes/time-stamps from the Help ‘Verse, including: What was Dean thinking when Gabriel showed up in the panic room? What were Dean and Cas doing in said panic room while Sam and Gabriel were ‘working out their misunderstanding’? What happened after God showed up and what does Bobby think about all of this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feet Back On the Ground - Help 'Verse Missing Scenes

  
**I.**   


Dean slumped down to rest against the Impala, not sure whose help he was even calling out for – they didn’t really have anyone left willing to help. By the archangels’ own admission, God was gone and their allies were few and far between. The longer he waited, the clearer it became that no-one was coming - and worse, he was out in the open like an idiot, too close to giving Michael the word he wanted.

His head was starting to pound, and he drained the whiskey in one long swallow, shivering even as it warmed his throat. It was cold up here, but at least he couldn’t hear Sammy any more.

Even as he thought it he felt like a prize douchebag; it wasn’t his way to let his brother suffer. If he couldn’t be in that room to help Sam, he decided, throwing the bottle aside and struggling upright, then he could at least be man enough to keep an eye on him.

At the very least it would take his mind off the black hole inside of his chest and Famine’s words ringing sinisterly in his ears.

He managed not to stumble at all as he walked back inside the house, past Bobby (reading in the living room, the radio turned up as loud as it would go in order to drown Sam out) and into the study where a crude, black-and-white television linked up to the camera in the bunker showed Sam, huddled in on himself.

Sam looked, unsurprisingly, like shit. Curled up on the cot with his arms wrapped around his stomach, Sam’s hair was matted with sweat against his forehead. Between moans, whimpers and the curses peppered here and there, Dean could make out Sam calling for him, and for Cas. Experience told him that the worst was yet to come.

He spent the rest of the night and the following day with one eye on Sam, the other on Revelations.

When Sam began to hallucinate, Dean didn’t look too closely at what Sam was saying or doing. When he was thrown around the room, which they’d thankfully stripped of breakables and potential dangers to Sam and anyone else, Dean fixated on Enoch instead. It was a change of pace from the doomsday book he knew so well now.

It was exactly the same as the last time, but no one was letting Sam out until he was clean, and Sam wasn’t running off to free the devil. (“Been there,” Dean said at one point, under his breath to avoid Bobby’s disappointed glare, “Done that.”)

But the second night was different. One minute Sam was alone; the next he wasn’t.

Gabriel stood in the middle of the panic room, staring down at Sam. Dean held his breath, waiting to see what the archangel would do, painfully aware of their last exchange in a warehouse, separated by a ring of flame. At least Gabriel was stuck in there – couldn’t take Sam away, to another dose, or to Lucifer.

Sam was a mess, but he wasn’t hallucinating or being thrown about any more, for which Dean was very, very glad. Even so, he was a wreck and the slump of Gabriel’s shoulders suggested that he wasn’t too pleased to see Sam like this either.

He watched Gabriel saunter over to the door, watched him relax against it and speak. Dean knew a façade like that when he saw one, he’d used them often enough himself.

Castiel’s voice from downstairs was muffled by the radio and the distance, but there was a tone of surprise, then a firm statement of some sort.

Dean’s throat closed up and he was torn between watching Gabriel and not hearing him, or going downstairs to chew him out but have no idea what he was doing to Sam. He stayed put as Gabriel turned and he and Sam began to speak.

He had a good angle on Sam, but he couldn’t see what Gabriel was saying. As soon as this was over, Dean swore he would fix up a microphone for in there. His lip-reading skills weren’t stellar, but he saw Sam form the words ‘Famine’, ‘dead’, and eventually ‘Dean’. Whatever he said, Gabriel suddenly straightened, gestured a little wildly and Sam looked confused. It made Gabriel’s lips twist into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t a smirk either and Dean wanted to punch the expression off his face.

As Gabriel stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, Dean recognised some of the Trickster-persona he’d dropped in the ring of burning holy oil return and he scoffed. Clearly, old habits were dying hard for Gabriel.

Something crossed Gabriel’s face that Dean didn’t want to name, something curious and soft, and the archangel sat down next to Sam. They continued to talk; he saw his own name mentioned in connection with Famine and Dean clenched his fists. He didn’t want that douchebag of an undercover archangel – one who’d taken great pleasure in fucking them over for _years_ and had given them no warning of what was coming – knowing anything about what Famine had said.

Sam was swinging between facial expressions, a grin wiped off his face by a whole-body shudder; he recovered, continued to talk. To Dean it was progress – he’d seen Sam suffer through worse in the last two days.

Dean watched Gabriel frown, Sam turn to him with wide eyes and a small smile threatening to break out his dimples and with a weak smile, Sam hid his face. Clearly his brother and the archangel were _bonding_ , and that longing to hit the equivalent of a stone wall was only rising.

When Sam’s nickname passed Gabriel’s lips, Dean was half-way out of his chair before he even registered he’d moved. He contemplated following the movement, marching down there and demanding answers – firstly, why Gabriel even showed up – but Sam suddenly had a bowl of soup and Gabriel was munching on a chocolate bar and Dean could have kicked himself.

He didn’t put much food in there for Sam, just some bread and water because it was all Bobby had to hand, and Sam had finished that for his breakfast that morning. He must have been ravenous, and the way he was going at that soup was practically indecent. He and Gabriel were still talking, but the bowl was soon set aside and Dean was rapt. Sam was falling asleep, but Gabriel wasn’t paying close enough attention. His head was lolling closer and closer to the archangel’s shoulder and Dean was mentally preparing two things: how he’d murder Gabriel and jokes at Sam’s expense.

This was possibly the most compelling TV he’d watched in weeks.

Of course, he’d made a point to avoid watching television since he’d last seen Gabriel.

And, he thought guiltily, his brother’s pain was _not_ for his entertainment.

Still, he snickered when he saw it dawn on Gabriel that Sam was sleeping on him. The archangel tried to pull away and Sam just fell further onto him. The expression on Gabriel’s was going to sustain Dean for a week, at least – horror, exasperation and just a hint of disgust.

But it melted into something a lot like an indulgent sort of affection and Dean tensed.

Oh, _hell_ no.

The Trickster had always taken an interest in Sam, and after his identity had been busted (in spectacular fashion, if Dean did say so himself) Dean had put that down to their roles in this pre-determined bullshit. That apparently wasn’t all there was to it; it made a lot of sense to Dean, suddenly.

Gabriel had clearly settled in for the long haul, book in hand. Dean thought for a moment, and then decided to fix himself another coffee; Sam wasn’t in any immediate danger. Bobby had already gone to bed, and Cas was strangely determined to stay by the door of the panic room, like Heaven might send someone to do the same trick twice. That left Dean to watch the Trickster and make sure his hands stayed _above the waist_.

When Sam shifted ever closer, when Gabriel abandoned his book and let Sam sprawl over him, when Gabriel began to pull Sam further in, Dean became simultaneously calmer and more murderous.

Archangel or not, Gabriel was getting the third degree when Dean opened that door.

 

* * *

  


  
**II.**   


“Where to?”

“Perhaps you ought to choose this time,” Castiel suggested.

Gabriel rocked his chair back on two legs at an impossible angle and frowned. “I don’t have any sense about this, you know. We’re both flying blind.” Four days in and Castiel’s choices hadn’t been successful - was he was hoping Gabriel may have better luck?

Castiel said nothing. It rankled Gabriel, who was desperately trying to stop Castiel’s deference to him which was growing day by day. He knew the younger angel couldn’t help it, such an instinct was ingrained not just because of Gabriel’s archangel status but because Gabriel had shared some of himself with Castiel. Still, it was control he didn’t want, not over this angel who had shown astoundingly better judgement than him.

“Come on, Cas,” his tone became darker, bitter, and the chair legs hit the floor with a cracking thump. “It probably doesn’t matter – if He wants to be found, we’ll know about it. That’s if He’s out there to be found at all.” He watched as Castiel hung his head and turned away ever so slightly; he relaxed with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Castiel. How does Europe sound? I haven’t been to Europe for a while.”

“I realise you aren’t hopeful-“

“It doesn’t matter,” said Gabriel, “You are, and if we can find Dad then this becomes a whole lot easier. I think that wherever He is, He wants to see if we can do this ourselves and we need to point out to him that we sure as fuck can’t.”

“Perhaps he is waiting for something else?” Castiel suggested, ignoring the implied blasphemy that their Father was _wrong_. He’d become quite adept at ignoring blasphemy, lately.

The archangel raised a sceptical eyebrow, “Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Right,” Gabriel huffed as he stood up. “Let’s go; this has been a shitty day and I’m ready to get the fuck out of here.” He quickly reached out to Sam and Dean with his grace, checking they were asleep and peaceful. Dean certainly was, probably because he wasn’t even dreaming yet and Gabriel withdrew his grace from the elder Winchester in satisfaction.

Sam was awake and was radiating the same painful cacophony of emotions he’d been forcing into Gabriel’s psyche all day. At this rate, Lucifer was going to have a banquet if he took a dream-walk through Sam’s mind, but Gabriel was at a loss as what to do. Sam wouldn’t let Gabriel anywhere near him, had barely spoken to him and was now turning that ire on Dean as well.

Dean found it hilarious, but refused to explain why, or tell Gabriel what the fuck was going on with Sam. It was a fucking conspiracy, is what it was.

He withdrew his grace with reluctance but a little relief too, and it hurt to be _relieved_. He wanted, more than anything, to go upstairs, sit by Sam and soothe him, help him – and yeah, map every inch of the kid with his tongue, but that could wait until the kid could stand him. Sam was warring with himself over something and Gabriel was curious, hurt and pissed.

“Ready?” He asked Castiel, peevishly.

Castiel blinked, and Gabriel felt examined, chastised, broken open and laid bare. “He will come around.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, “I’m starting in Azerbijan and working north-west, do keep up.” He clicked brutally for effect as he left Singer’s kitchen and headed for Europe.

 

Touching back down on Singer’s front step, fresh from another failure to find their Father, Gabriel was immediately aware of Sam, shuffling morosely around the kitchen. Castiel looked at him curiously when he didn’t walk into the house.

“Just ...give me a minute,” Gabriel mumbled, turning away. He hated feeling like some sort of love-sick puppy, but he couldn’t quite bear to walk into that kitchen knowing Sam was in the midst of some inexplicable emotional meltdown and was avoiding Gabriel as avidly as he’d once tried to find him.

And their Father was so far nowhere to be found – if He wanted to be. Gabriel was slowly coming around to the belief that if their Father still walked His Earth, then He didn’t want to interfere, didn’t want to be found, didn’t want any part of this feud. It was abandonment, pure and simple, and it was a long time since he’d felt so alone, so aware of what he no longer had.

Castiel reached out with hand and grace, gripping his shoulder gently as he surrounded Gabriel in warm comfort.

He appreciated the gesture, even if it made him long for home and a Father long gone, and to try and head off whatever comment Castiel would make, Gabriel sighed, “Something around southern Spain seemed different. We’ll take a closer look tonight... push Africa back a few days.”

The subtle hint didn’t work. “Gabriel, perhaps you ought to consider that as much as he is pushing you away, it is not what he wants.”

“Leave it, Castiel,” Gabriel said firmly.

“No, Gabriel,” and he wondered why he was trying to train obedience out of Castiel after all, “Give him time, and do not let him run.”

He wanted to say something snide, something along the lines of ‘ _because that’s working so well with Dean_ ’, but he didn’t because honestly, it _was_ working. Dean loved Castiel back, he just had to get over himself first and they would be blessedly happy together. But Sam...

Gabriel clapped Castiel on the shoulder and headed into the house without a word. Both boys were in the living room with a cup of coffee, and Sam continued to glare down at the pages of a dusty tome even when Dean and Gabriel shared ‘ _good morning_ ’s.

 

* * *

  


  
**III.**   


Sam knew he had no claim to Gabriel. After all, Gabriel was an archangel; the only one with a claim to him was God Himself and He apparently wasn’t playing with his toys any more.

But surely it meant something that Gabriel had shown up when Sam had called?

Surely it meant something that it was always him whom the Trickster had messed with, like pulling pigtails in the playground?

Surely it frickin’ _meant something_ that Gabriel had practically eye-fucked him, healed the closest thing Sam had to a father nowadays, joked about Snow White with him, eye-fucked him some more over soup and then offered to help them with their pesky apocalypse?

Right?

So, why the fuck was Gabriel suddenly all chummy with _Dean_?

Sam realised he was acting like a total girl, but-

But Dean had his own angel to be making eyes over – which he was still doing, so clearly Gabriel wasn’t doing too good a job with all the pie and ‘good old days of pagan rites’ stories and the endless, endless _flirting_. It was sickening, and every time Sam thought he and Gabriel were getting back to the delicious tension of that first day, Dean would show up calling him “Gabe”, riling him and demanding pancakes and _getting them_.

It was driving Sam mad.

After that first day, Gabriel didn’t sit directly opposite Sam again, leaving him facing Castiel who just kept staring like if he did it hard enough, Sam would get whatever it was he was trying to convey.

He was losing sleep, over nightmares and the surety that Gabriel was only ever interested in him as Lucifer’s vessel, or a way to Dean, and nothing more. He would listen to the two of them talk, strategise, and joke whilst he read and realise he’d been staring at the same page for hours without taking a word in. He would sometimes stare back at Cas and wonder how the hell he was being so calm and even fucking amused while Gabriel seduced Dean right under his nose.

But he kept coming back to two things.

Firstly, Dean wanted Cas, so perhaps this flirting was just a good rapport.

Secondly, if Gabriel really wanted Sam, it would be obvious. So maybe, Gabriel just didn’t want Sam. Not that Sam could blame him. He wasn’t exactly what little archangels grow up dreaming of catching – the boy with demon blood who started the apocalypse.

He was staring at cans of chopped tomatoes like they’d done him a grave injustice, and the clerk of the mini-mart looked ready to call the cops. He really should just let Gabriel ‘acquire’ everything they needed, but it helped get Sam out of that house. He only hoped that by the time he got back, something had happened to change this ridiculous pause they had on the apocalypse.

Not that it wasn’t awesome to just lay low, regroup and take the time to plan for a change, but Sam was going stir-crazy.

He grabbed a few more tins off the shelves, paid the clerk who was all too eager to see his money and have his ass walk out the door, and drove himself back to Bobby’s.

The house was just as he’d left it, just quieter. He heard the crunching of candy before he saw Gabriel’s sneakers propped up on the table. The guy was even reading the trashy news mags he’d gathered for inspiration from as a Trickster; he was a sitting cliché this afternoon. Dean and Cas were nowhere to be seen, and though Gabriel must have heard him, he seemed intent on ignoring Sam.

Well fuck that, Sam decided. He was sick of guessing, of wanting, of being so jealous he could barely sleep, eat or see straight. Gabriel was going to back off of Dean and Cas’ relationship, right the fuck now. “Where is everyone?”

 

* * *

  


  
**IV.**   


_“Yeah, well, I think Dean and Cas were heading towards something great until you showed up and started seducing him with your jokes and flirting over pie and pancakes.”_

In the panic room, Dean chuckled. “Looks like Sammy’s about to get a shock.”

Dean turned his attention back to the final stroke on the sigil, and tried not to think about the slickness of the lambs’ blood. At least it wasn’t warm; it was always worse when it was warm. He looked over his shoulder at Cas, painting on the opposite side of the room, working diligently. He’d even removed his coat and jacket, with his sleeves rolled up and tie loose. He was a walking GQ spread and Dean forced himself to look away.

 _“Oh yeah, definitely a misunderstanding. I’m not interested in Dean, and Dean is certainly not interested in me.”_

He snorted, “Sam really is a girl, sometimes.”

 _“You’re not?”_

“They both seem strangely oblivious,” Cas agreed. “But you have been encouraging Sam’s jealousy on purpose.”

“Eh,” Dean shrugged. “It was fun. Kid needs to lighten up a little. Besides, Gabriel cares about him and probably isn’t going to screw him over.” When Cas smiled at the ringing endorsement Dean had just given his brother, Dean couldn’t help but nod in satisfaction. He’d made Cas smile, and it seemed Sam and Gabriel were finally going to sort their shit out and so the world was looking up just a little.

 _“...been trying to convince your brother to stop feeling so unworthy and damned responsible and take his angel to bed!”_

Dean dropped the paintbrush, frozen. It was entirely possible Cas didn’t hear that, he rationalised, hopelessly. The perfect, motionless silence from the other half of the panic room was all Dean needed to know that Castiel _definitely_ heard. Then again, Gabriel had frickin’ shouted it for the solar system to hear, and Dean heard without the benefit of angel-enhanced audio.

He coughed, his voice trying to make it past the lump in his throat and not succeeding, “Cas-.” He wasn’t even sure how to finish the thought; Dean couldn’t even look at him, so what could he possibly say? Cas was an _angel_ and what was he? Hell’s prized torturer for a decade, a job he came to revel in by the end. He was damaged and fucked up and yeah, he wasn’t worthy.

Everything he loved, everything he held close was eventually snatched away, sullied and ruined if ever returned at all. People he loved either left him or ended up dead, or at the very least were damaged by knowing him. He _died_ and Sam tried so hard to be like him, to cope, he turned to the one lesson Dad and Dean taught him best: revenge, and because of it Sam was manipulated into setting Lucifer free upon the world.

Now Cas was Falling because of him; wasn’t that bad enough?

“Dean,” Cas was right behind him, at his shoulder, close enough to reach out and touch, close enough to be breathing on Dean’s neck if Cas did that. “You have to know you are worthy of love.”

He turned around slowly, eyes closed as though he could maybe pretend this wasn’t happening. But when Cas laid a hand on his shoulder – on his mark on Dean’s skin, on his _soul_ \- his eyes snapped open and Cas was _so close_.

“Cas, I... I’m not-,” he cut off abruptly, took a deep breath and tried to continue. “I can’t be...-”

“I made my own choices, Dean, and I chose this. I chose _you_ ,” Castiel cut him off fervently, his gaze seeming to stare right down to the dark, bruised, worn places of Dean’s soul, the soul he’d rescued, returned to its body and marked for eternity. “I would do it all over again.”

Cas’ hand on his shoulder squeezed gently before slipping along his shoulder to the juncture of his neck, settling there, thumb resting against Dean’s pulse.

He smiled, eyes locked with Castiel’s. “How long have you been waiting for me to get my shit together?”

The angel didn’t respond, just used a little pressure to pull Dean’s mouth that fraction closer until his lips met Castiel’s and it was soft, deep, pliant and damn, Cas could kiss.

Dean had long decided that if this ever happened (though he’d quietly suspected it never would, because he’d never let it, because Cas wouldn’t let him) he would take things slow, be careful because if there was anything he wanted to get right it would be this. But Cas’ tongue was stroking in an achingly representative manner, one of Cas’ hands was pushing his shirt up his back inch by inch to find his skin and somehow Dean was being backed up against the wall.

He pulled back just enough to say, “Cas, are you sure we-”

“Yes, Dean,” and Cas actually managed to sound exasperated.

“Right,” Dean grinned, and as he dove in to give Cas as good as he’d just gotten, he shucked his shirt off, peeling it from the wall where it had stuck to the bloody sigils and he manoeuvred Cas closer to the cot. He was suddenly very glad he’d taken the initiative and burned the sheets Sam had trashed during his detox and flipped the mattress because he was damned if he and Cas were going to make it upstairs.

Especially if Sam and Gabriel were sorting themselves out and shit, that was an inappropriate thought at any time let alone _right now_ , when his hands were pushing Cas’ coat and jacket off his shoulders and starting work on the tie around his neck.

“This is hardly fair,” Cas protested, pulling Dean’s t-shirt over his head, and when Dean felt the angel’s fingers against his belly, working the button of his jeans, it dawned on him that this was going to be over pretty fast. He groaned, nipping at Cas’ jaw and pushing his slacks down.

A flurry of moment later, Dean finally had Cas beneath him on the bed, his hard cock and Cas’ trapped between them with soft, torturous friction. Dean buried his face in Cas’ neck, lapping at the skin there. “Cas, I haven’t got time to-”

“I won’t,” the angel’s breath hitched as Dean sunk his teeth around his collarbone, “Won’t need it.”

“Not the point,” Dean huffed even as his dick jumped at the very thought of sliding home into Cas that very moment. It would have to wait, he couldn’t wait, not right now. As he slipped a hand between them, the first brush of contact between his palm and their cocks tore stuttering breaths from both of them.

He leaned up just a little to draw Cas into a rough kiss, a fierce contrast to the gentle pulling rhythm Dean had going with his wrist, sweat and pre-come slicking the way. Cas’ tongue seemed to trace every ridge of his palette, the curve of his inner cheek, mapping his mouth like he could memorise it and Dean realised that his angel probably could.

Cas’ breath, gasping into Dean’s own mouth, was become ever shallower and more ragged, ripping from his throat every time. Dean vowed to work on making him more vocal, because a bit of dirty talk in Cas’ low, husky tones would go a long way in Dean’s book, but there wasn’t time now, when Cas was close and Dean was right there with him, that pleasure-pressure building at the base of his spine. “C’mon, Cas. Come for me,” Dean cajoled, pumping a little rougher with their cocks and nipping at the angel’s jaw.

The sight of Cas’ back arching up, his hips slamming into Dean’s as he came and thick, white spurts splashing both of their chests was enough to push Dean over that precipice and he came, thrusting into his own fist alongside Cas’ still-twitching cock and his face pressed into Cas’ neck.

He might have blacked out, which was a little embarrassing, but it seemed like one moment was a hot orgasmic high and the next he was sprawled with half his body over Cas, both of them spent and sticky. His face was still hidden in Cas’ neck but a hand was threading through his hair and the one that wasn’t was overlaid on the handprint on his skin.

He licked his lips, catching some of Cas’ neck in the motion and making the fingers in his hair clench a little before resuming, and brought a hand to rest on Cas’ chest. Sure, he was cuddling, but he was going to erase this tape on the panic room CCTV anyway, so what was the harm in a few extra indulgences. “Do we get Gabriel a fruit-basket or an Easter hamper full of chocolate?”

Cas’ lips curved into an almost-frown, “He hardly deserves credit for this.”

“Well... True.”

“And he’s getting all he requires upstairs.”

“Cas,” Dean said slowly, “We need to talk about bedroom etiquette. I won’t talk about our brothers’ sex lives while I’m naked being rule numero uno.”

 

* * *

  


  
**V.**   


The confusion in Samuel and Dean, as well as the joy at being around two of her angels once again was delightful, and perhaps it was a consequence of the form She’d taken that it startled a laugh out of her. Her forms had always influenced how She presented herself.

“Father,” Gabriel breathed, torn between moving closer to her and staying by Samuel’s side. Both of her sons had taken protective stances with their lovers, and it warmed her with pride.

“Yes, Gabriel,” She smiled. Some of what She had to say would have to wait; tact was something most human beings valued, and they would not appreciate even their brothers being privy to it. “We have much to discuss, you and I; all of you, in fact. There are things you need to hear; things you need to say. But first, I must apologise.”

Gabriel shook his head, “No,” even as Dean spluttered out a, “Damn right.”

He earned three sharp looks for that, but She couldn’t help but giggle again. It earned her a few stares in turn, though Gabriel’s was more indulgent than the others. “Dean is correct; I let this situation get out of hand. My intention was for Humanity to prove itself in saving itself. Michael and Sammael were meant to come together and remember themselves. Sadly,” She breathed deep, “The opportunity I gave my angels was not seized as I had intended and circumstances aren’t as they should have been.”

“Sammael?” Samuel asked. “You mean Lucifer?”

She nodded at Samuel. Gabriel had chosen so well, and Castiel. “Before he was Lucifer, before he was the Morningstar, he was Sammael. In many ways, he will always be Sammael to me.”

“What opportunity?” Gabriel was experiencing shame and it stung. Perhaps She would have to address his choices sooner than She had intended.

“I left Heaven,” She said simply. “I left to set these events in motion, to immerse myself in Humanity and to give my angels, my first born, the chance to grow and learn. I left to give you free will.”

Gabriel’s pain was a like a lance to her. “We didn’t know.”

“My error, perhaps,” She conceded, walking forward to stand before her messenger, the one She chose to deal justice. He would understand better than anyone her intention. She reached up to put her palm to his cheek. “But I could not order you to use your free will as I saw fit, could I?”

Gabriel rewarded her with a small smile, understanding. She saw the quick wit flash through his eyes. “You’re shorter than I remember.”

She clapped her hands delightedly. “Oh, Gabriel. You are, in many ways, exactly what I hoped for.” She stepped back, revelling for a moment in his joy as he moved even closer to Samuel. Dean and Samuel were, for the moment, stunned into silence and while She waited, She turned to Castiel who had so far remained silent and continued to avert his gaze. She had never before stood in his presence, but She had been anticipating doing so since he’d pulled Dean Winchester from the depths of Lucifer’s cruel Hell.

“Castiel,” She took one of his hands in hers and asked him to look at her with a gentle squeeze. His trepidation was unwarranted and She said so. “Castiel, I am so very proud of you.” She could feel his grace, stronger than it had been but still weakened and only bolstered by Gabriel’s interference. Her physical form had limits but not in this, and She had long wanted to reward Castiel. The first act in her return to the helm of the Host would be to elevate him, and with a thought it was done.

Gabriel gasped, and Castiel’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”

“No, Castiel. Thank you.”

“Um, I have no idea what just happened,” Dean blinked, waving his hands and sounding highly sceptical. “God’s a little girl?”

She grinned, fisting her hands in the folds of her sundress and twisting her hips to make the skirt swirl just a little. “I am for the moment. I do not take vessels as my angels must, I simply present myself a certain way. This is far more interesting than an old, bearded man, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah,” he nodded slowly. “What did you just do to Cas?”

“Dean,” Castiel reprimanded but it was not necessary. Dean’s blunt demeanour was refreshing.

“Castiel got a promotion,” Gabriel said in her stead and with great satisfaction. “You’re a fully charged archangel now, bro. Congratulations - the perks are awesome.”

“Woah,” Samuel breathed.

“I second that,” Dean said with a grin at Castiel.

“Perhaps we should sit,” She suggested, “I know you have many questions and you have both yet to eat. I imagine you are both hungry.”

All four blushed, and She slipped into the seat at the head of the oval, oak table with a smirk. Though they had become accustomed to certain seats in the kitchen, it was clear by the slight fumbling around each other that they had chosen differently this evening. Gabriel and Sam sat to her right and Castiel and Dean to her left.

“There are many things you wish to ask me, I know, and I understand much of it you will wish to keep private,” She looked sympathetically upon them. “Dean, Samuel, you will have another opportunity to speak to me alone,” She looked at her archangels, “And you two won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“You’re going back?” Gabriel was surprised and She knew that was her fault. She had abandoned her children and no matter her intentions, there were consequences for that. “You’re going to sort this out?”

“I am,” She said with finality.

Dean and Samuel shared a look and Dean spoke for them both. “But the plan was for us to say ‘yes’ to Michael and Lucifer.” Though Dean’s expression was unreadable to Samuel, Gabriel and Dean, She knew he was fooling them no more than he was fooling her.

“I had intended,” She put particular emphasis on the past tense, and the brothers relaxed, “for Michael and Sammael to use you both as vessels to resolve their conflict. This was meant to happen long before now, under vastly different circumstances, and you were meant to accept them willingly.”

Dean snorted in disbelief.

“I know, Dean. While your bond does not correspond entirely to theirs-“

“Too right,” Gabriel huffed, but shut up pretty quickly under her quelling gaze.

“Don’t interrupt, Gabriel,” She said, not unkindly, “I am trying to explain myself. Now, Samuel, Dean, you are brothers and up to a point, you represented very well both Michael and Sammael on Earth as they once were in Heaven. However, they have both forgotten too much what they once were and have... strayed from the intended path. I will have to do much to return Heaven to what it should be.”

“And what about us?”

She shrugged, “As ever, that is up to you. Your lives are your own once more, and upon your deaths you will be welcomed into Heaven with open arms. By archangels, I should expect,” She added, with quick looks at Gabriel and Castiel.

The shocked intakes of breath from both Winchester boys were unexpectedly loud in the kitchen, and while their confusion was palpable to her, She knew that now was not the time to discuss such things. Dean did not wish to address before Samuel and Gabriel all that he did in Hell, and Samuel carried the consequences of his actions more heavily than he should when he prayed so honestly for forgiveness, even still.

“Now, I must go but I shall return soon,” her smile was sad, even a little bitter. She had felt many of her sons’ and daughters’ existences ended recently by their siblings’ hands, but She had been ruthless once and for good reason. “I must speak with Michael and Sammael.”

 

* * *

  


  
**VI.**   


The still-standing house was a sight for sore eyes to Bobby. After months stuck in that damned chair, he’d been desperate as hell to get out – well, he thought with a sympathetic wince, perhaps not _that_ desperate – and yet less than a fortnight away had left him a little homesick. By the looks of things, those boys were alive, kicking and out of trouble.

Would wonders ever cease, he scoffed.

He hopped out of the cab of his truck and slammed the door behind him, glad his neighbours weren’t close enough to mind the loud crack of noise in the few minutes before midnight. There were lights on downstairs, meaning the boys were still up and he found himself hoping to whatever deity would listen that the air wasn’t so thick in there anymore. One more longing look across a room and Bobby had been ready to shoot someone; most likely himself.

Whatever it was he expected to find upon returning home, it wasn’t the boys and the two angels around his kitchen table playing poker, laughing and drinking like the world wasn’t going to end.

Dean caught sight of him first, Sam and Gabriel turning around as nudging Castiel with his elbow. Bobby saw him mutter something, and with a nod from the angel, Dean called out, “Hey Bobby! Pull up a chair.”

As he walked into the kitchen he eyed the poker chips – Bellagio and probably the genuine article – and the beer and chasers littering the table. He set his bag down and drew out a chair.  
“You boys know something I don’t?”

“As a matter of fact,” a beer and a short of whiskey with ice appeared in front of him with a click and it seemed like that archangelic trickster was good for something after all, the laying on of hands aside, “We do. D’you want in? Sammy’s about to crash and burn.”

“Am not,” he groaned, his vowels loose, and Bobby took a long swallow of his beer. They were easily a few games in by now, judging by the slight glaze over Sam’s eyes. He was even leaning a little against Gabriel, and given the atmosphere he left the house in, Bobby would hazard a guess that they’d sorted their shit out.

Dean grinned, “Y’are too.” And with a flourish, Dean set down a pair of kings and Sam surrendered his hand with a groan. Dean whooped, throwing his hands up and slapping Castiel on the back as his arms came back down; oh hell, realised Bobby, they’ve sorted their shit out too.

He was going to have to soundproof his room. At least he’d moved downstairs – the boys had taken both rooms on the second floor. At least he was below the bathroom else he’d never go into his room again for fear of hearing something he’d really rather he didn’t.

“So are you boys gonna let me in on the secret? You’re all celebrating pretty hard here and last I looked we didn’t have a whole lot to celebrate over,” he swigged his beer, watching as the four of them had a whole conversation in a few pointed glances.

Eventually Gabriel kicked back and laced his hands behind his head. “The apocalypse,” he said with relish, every syllable milked for dramatic effect, “has been cancelled.”

 

* * *

  


  
**VII.**   


If She appeared in heaven now, all hell would break loose - so to speak. She did not want to become involved in celestial politics with Michael and Raphael before the current situation was dealt with. She’d have to give her orders via Joshua, then. She gave her listener her Word and told him She’d await Michael in the Sahara with a temporary vessel for him. She trusted Michael’s skills enough to find her in the middle of the night in that three and a half million square mile desert.

In the meantime, She reached out to Sammael, currently inhabiting his crumbling vessel in Maine. Even now, his grace responded as eagerly as his brothers’ to her attention, wounded and embittered as it was.

‘Follow me, Sammael,’ She entreated; not an order, because he wouldn’t take kindly to that but a request – if She was to get a little, She’d have to give a little too. Humanity had taught her a great deal about diplomacy for all their endless war-mongering.

Her tennis shoes sank with a hiss into the sand of the desert dunes. It was a picturesque landscape in the moonlight, but more importantly devoid of any human life; the conversation She was to have with her General and her Light-bringer was not for anyone else to know.

Lucifer appeared, vessel-bound, and Nicholas’ body was wearing exceptionally thin under the strain of the archangel’s grace.

“Sammael,” She had not been in his presence for so long, and despite his vessel he was still beautiful; her Morningstar.

“Not anymore,” Lucifer countered wryly. “I had heard you were gone. Dead, even.”

“I believe there’s a quote for such an occasion as this,” her tone was conspiratorial, “Rumours of my death, etcetera.”

Lucifer smirked just a little, but as he stared out over the cold desert landscape he sobered. He did not turn to face her completely, but She could still see his face and more importantly his grace. “Have I come to die?”

“I hope not,” She replied, her tone as blunt as his. “I have things to say to you both.”

“Michael is coming, then.”

“I have asked.”

“You haven’t ordered him?” He finally turned to her, sneering, “It’s how he responds best, after all.”

She shook her head sadly. “He has a choice. You all have a choice, now.”

“Oh, how you’ve changed your tune,” Lucifer scoffed. “And what a form to appear in!”

“Hmm, yes,” She smoothed her dress down with her hands. “Gabriel seemed to like it.”

“You’ve seen Gabriel?” His brow arched in surprise and She knew he was remembering his brother fondly. She nodded, knowing many had assumed Gabriel dead. Lucifer may not have assumed the worst, but her four archangels were close once and his absence had been missed on both sides (not that Gabriel suspected so, but he was always the most sensitive).

“He is with the Winchester brothers, with Castiel.”

“You intend to stop me then,” he breathed, his head bowed in acceptance.

“Sammael, you will stop,” She replied, in no uncertain terms.

She saw him open his mouth to retort, to deride perhaps, but they both felt Michael’s approach in that moment. To be ready for him, She whipped up sand from the desert with an outstretched hand, shifting it and aligning every atom just so until what stood before her was a replica to the very DNA of John Winchester, just as he had been when Michael had taken him for a vessel thirty years before.

His surprise at finding his father and Lucifer exchanging words was not as overwhelming as his love, happiness and heartbreak at the scene. As She watched him funnel himself into the temporary vessel, She was aware of Sammael’s apprehension, a clawing at the very core of her; it had been an age since they’d spoken and Michael and Sammael’s last words to each other had not been kind.

“Michael,” She spoke first, giving them time to assess the other’s mood. This reconciliation had to be successful; She hoped to avoid having to strike either of them down. “I’m glad you chose to come.”

“Of course,” he said, eyes fixed on his brother. “Lucifer.”

“Michael,” Lucifer parroted, the expression on his vessel’s face carefully blank even as his grace fought to reach out to his brother and adversary. Michael’s was attempting much the same thing, and it hurt her to know how desperately their very being called out for the other.

Their separation, for want of a better turn of phrase, must have been hell.

“Where was I?” She asked rhetorically, watching as tendrils of pure grace curled out from both of her sons, never breaching the half-way line between them, defined exactly where She stood. It was an echo of times long past to have Sammael on her left and Michael to her right; to have them reaching out from either side of her. She looked from one to the other in sadness, “It was not meant to come to this.”

“How could it be any different?” Michael asked, “We knew to wait for the two of them, we knew their names. We orchestrated their very conceptions. From the beginning, they were meant for this.”

“Not this,” She countered. “Not the destruction of all I created here. That was not their purpose.”

Lucifer was the one to ask, though he beat Michael by mere moments to the question, “What was their purpose if not to bring about this end?”

“To bring about the end of this feud,” She responded, looking between her warring sons, “To show you both brothers who love each other and who can put that before all else - no matter their grievances and betrayals! Through Dean and Samuel, you were meant to find yourselves again.” She sighed; it had all gone so wrong.

Michael and Lucifer looked at her in shock. “Father...”

“I have made mistakes,” She admitted, holding their gaze as best She could. “I did not guide you as I should have, and I did not forgive so easily then as I can do now. The world I created has changed and grown and I believed leaving my Host would afford you the same opportunity. Michael, I will return to Heaven and set right what has gone so far astray in my absence.”

Her general nodded, stunned speechless by his father’s confessions. She turned to Lucifer.

“Sammael, I would that you would ask to return. I cannot order you to,” She smiled a little ruefully, “And you would do the opposite purely on principle if I tried.”

“Possibly true,” he murmured, staring at his father. He refused to look at Michael, whose grace had flared with _something_ at their father’s request.

She nodded, “But if you were to ask, you would be welcomed. If you do not, then I would not be merciful and I would strike you down myself.”

“I-”

“Do not answer now, Sammael,” She said gently, walking towards him and speaking as softly as She could. Michael would still hear her words, but She could give them both this illusion of privacy. “Speak with Michael, say all that you must. When the sun comes up over this desert, call out for me and I shall come to you.”

“You know already what I will say,” Lucifer’s smile was puzzled. “Why would you prolong this for another hour?”

She leaned up to place a kiss on his forehead, and he ducked to meet her half way, his eyes close to the sensation. When he opened his eyes She was gone, her whispered words hanging in the night air. “Because I still hope that you will change your mind.”

 

“Apparently Gabriel is with the Winchesters,” Lucifer began, a possible non sequitur considering what they were expected to speak of. After the orchestrations they’d gone through to face each other on Earth, it had happened too early and in the wrong bodies, so why should he do as expected now? “I’d believed him dead.”

“He’s claimed your vessel for a mate,” Michael raised an eyebrow, “As Castiel has claimed mine.”

That was news to Lucifer, and if he wasn’t destined to die or return home this day, he’d probably have been enraged. “Those boys really are more trouble than they’re worth.”

“I suppose it isn’t our problem anymore.”

“No,” Lucifer agreed softly. The desert wind stirred the sand around them, whipped up their hair and abraded their skin. He found it refreshing after eons in his lonely corner of hell, trapped among the stifling heat and screams – a prison of his own making. “A relief, I should think.”

Michael said nothing and for long moments the only sound was the breeze against the dunes.

Eventually, “Your vessel is failing.”

“And you’re wearing a pillar of sand,” Lucifer replied dryly. “No matter, neither will be of consequence soon enough.”

“What do you intend to do?”

He scoffed, “You know what I intend to do. Father may welcome me, but-”

“I’d welcome you,” Michael stepped forward, interrupting his brother fervently. It was an offer and a promise and to Lucifer it sounded like a prayer. “Brother, _I would welcome you_.”

“For what price?” Lucifer asked, the voice from his vessel echoing the raw break of his grace. Even now he was trying to pull back, keep his very being from wrapping around Michael’s; after eons apart, it was an agony to be so close and still deny himself something he’d once done without a thought, without reservation. There were times when Gabriel and Raphael would look upon them and struggle to define them as individuals, they’d been so interwoven. Not anymore. Not now. Perhaps... not ever. “What would you demand of me?”

Michael was still moving bodily forward, his grace stretching closer and closer and still Lucifer clawed every ounce of grace away. It was defence as much as shame; he was sure if Michael reached out in compassion he’d change his mind and never regret it. “Just ask to come home, Sammael. Please, just ask Him.”

He closed his eyes but it was no use, Michael was inches away, his grace impossibly near and yet separate. “Michael...”

“Things will be different; things _are_ different,” he swore, “Come home, Sammael, and stay.”

“And that is all? Just ‘ask’ and ‘stay’?” Lucifer shook his head, his name as it fell from Michael’s lips, echoed by his grace, ringing around him and mocking him for what he once was; what he could be again.

Michael’s essence withdrew fractionally and Lucifer felt himself relax and mourn. “You do not wish to return?”

The answer slipped from him, unbidden, and the honest words tripped of his tongue too easily. “I do, Michael. But if I return just to stand by His side and bow to humanity then there was no point to any of this.”

“ _There was no point to any of this, Lucifer_ ,” Michael snapped and his named was like a brand against Lucifer’s grace. “This world is of little consequence; until Dean Winchester was born I had not set eyes upon humanity since His Son walked the earth and even then I was present for his resurrection only. With Gabriel and Castiel set to remain here, we need not ever touch down on this planet nor see it ever again! So please,” his voice cracked, his grace finally surged forward and curled around Lucifer uninvited but never unwelcome, “Please come home with me. Stay with me.”

Sammael felt Michael’s grace caress his own, fill him up and coax the reluctant, battered places in his soul forward. They both broke free of their vessels and it was a relief; they could embrace unfettered as Michael’s wings – oh, how he’d missed his lover’s wings – drew up around them both, pulling Sammael in and promising never to release him.

“Stay,” Michael repeated as the first rays of sunlight crept above the horizon and Sammael’s grace swelled and tethered itself in his brother’s as much as Michael’s did in his. This, Sammael realised, was home.

“Yes,” he promised Michael, beckoning his Father, “Yes.”


End file.
